“But to find such things in my
poor mother’s house…” The cook shook her head, showering the kitchen with salty
droplets.

The housekeeper sighed and put the
lid on the soup pan. No need for it to taste like the English
Channel.

The cook blew her nose on her
apron and wiped her eyes. “But it looks… it seems…” She took the lid off the pan
and stirred inattentively, splashing the range with gelatinous
spots.

“It looks like your mama was up to
no good. Could have got herself into serious trouble,” said the housekeeper,
replacing the lid firmly. “And so shall we be if you spoil the soup. Leave it
alone.”

“Needs more salt,” said the cook,
waving the ladle. “But it’s a shock to find your mother were involved… She told
me she were a midwife!”

“She was a fool!” said the
housekeeper, confiscating the ladle and putting it out of harm’s way. “If you
take part in such things, then keep it a secret, I say. Writing it all down in
diaries like that!” The housekeeper shook her head.

It was true, the cook
acknowledged. Every detail of every desperate girl, written in her mother’s
shaky copperplate and shakier spelling. All the herbal recipes. What worked.
What didn’t. And who had died. It was shameful. A spot on the family reputation
if it got out – rather like the spots of mock turtle soup congealing on the
range. The cook dabbed at them with a cloth. “What shall I do?”

“Burn them,” said the housekeeper.
“Let that be an end to it.”

The cook hesitated, and then took
out two roughly-bound books from her pocket. She looked at them for a moment –
after all, they were her mother’s only legacy to the world – and then she
stuffed them into the fire where they flared briefly and were gone, now no more
than a contribution to the soup making. “Are you sure it doesn’t need more
salt?” she said.